The silence in Bellavita wasn't the quiet of a resting room; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded gun.

“Isabella,” Dominic said, his tone dropping into a register so cold it made my spine freeze. “Meet Elena Vance. She saved Lorenzo’s life tonight.”

Isabella Moretti—Dominic’s wife, or perhaps his formidable sister—descended the stairs slowly, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down. Her gaze took in my cheap apron, stained with baby formula and soot, and the terror still lingering in my eyes.

“A waitress?” Isabella sneered, stopping two steps above us. “You brought a stray off the street into our home and called her a savior?”

“She diagnosed an infant colic obstruction and cleared his airway while you were locked in the panic room hyperventilating,” Dominic shot back, not missing a beat. He brushed past her, carrying the baby toward the East Wing.

Isabella’s face tightened into a mask of pure venom. She turned her attention entirely to me, stepping down until she was standing toe-to-toe with me. She smelled of expensive French perfume and old money.

“Listen to me very carefully, Elena,” Isabella hissed softly, leaning in close so the guards wouldn't hear. “Dominic collects broken things because he thinks he can fix them. But this house is a graveyard for outsiders. If you think you can play nursemaid to my nephew and climb your way into this family’s inner circle, I will personally throw you to the wolves.”

“I don’t care about your family, your money, or your wars,” I whispered back, finding a sudden, unexpected reserve of courage. “I care about the baby. The moment he’s safe, I’m gone.”

Isabella’s eyes flashed with surprise, followed quickly by amusement. “We’ll see how long that resolve lasts when the real wolves come knocking.”

She turned on her heel, her silk robe rustling as she glided up the stairs.

Viktor appeared at my elbow like a ghost. “Your quarters are in the east wing, right next to the nursery. Don't wander the grounds after midnight. The perimeter sensors shoot first and ask questions later.”

He led me down a sprawling hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-looking Italian men holding cigars and ledgers. My room was surprisingly luxurious—a king-sized bed, white oak floors, and French doors leading to a private balcony overlooking the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.

But as I locked the door behind me and slid down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, the reality of my situation crashed down.

I was trapped in the fortress of the most dangerous man in Chicago.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I scrambled for it, thinking it might be a wrong number or a spam text.

Instead, it was an unknown number with a single photo attached.

It was a picture of my mother’s nursing home room, taken five minutes ago. A man in a black leather jacket was standing by her window, holding a red rose.